Disclaimer: I don't own Queer as Folk, Showtime and Cowlip, AKA the luckiest people in the world, do.

A/N: So, thanks to NaraxKagura's review, I got the idea for a second chapter of this. :D

"Brian?" I heard my name being called from the bedroom. I frowned, concerned. Having my name being called in the bedroom wasn't exactly new, but with me currently sorting through mail in the kitchen and Justin's voice sounding unaccountably upset, I couldn't help my own troubled curiosity.

"What?" I called back.

"What is this?"

Justin's voice sounded choked and close to tears now, and I quickly made my way to the back of the loft, afraid of what I would find. He still wasn't completely recovered from—the prom incident—even after all these months. Maybe he never would be. Which is why, when I swiftly jogged the steps separating the bedroom from the rest of the loft, I was sure I would find Justin on the bed, perhaps clutching his head in unimaginable agony or with that haunted, parallelized-with-fear look in his eyes he got during those excruciating moments that his memory seemed to return to him in painful flashes.

Instead, I found him at the dresser, holding a crumpled bit of paper in his hand and looking more lost than I had ever seen him.

"What is this?" he repeated, brandishing the paper at me. Then I noticed that the dresser drawer was open. Oh, fuck.

"Did you write this?"

Fuck fuck fuck. Well, what was I supposed to say? Who else could have written it? Not to mention that it was plainly written in my own distinctive handwriting. Shit.

I closed my eyes. He was not supposed to find that. Actually, I had forgotten about it myself. I had meant to throw it out, but the very moment I'd gotten up to do so, Justin had barged through the loft door and I'd stuffed it in the nearest safe place until I could dispose of it at a later date.

Obviously that hadn't happened.

He had found the list...the damn list of my complaints about him and now he was doing exactly what I knew he would do, staring up at me like an innocent, defenseless puppy I had just kicked in the gut. Of course, none of the not-as-horrible thoughts I'd had while writing the list had made it onto the page. It was just a list of six complaints:

#1 He would cry if he ever found out I was writing this list.

#2 He insists on filling my life with all sorts of hetero-torture methods.

#3 His damn artwork

#4 He loves to... oh, God, I can't even write it. He loves to do that sick thing that hetero's do at night in bed. All right, I'll write it once...cuddle. There. From now on, we shall just call it the 'C' word.

#5 He makes me think about things I don't want to think about.

#6 He's a twat because I can't even think of a damn number six.

Really, this hadn't sounded so bad at the time. It wasn't even too horrible now. But to Justin, of course, it was the fucking apocalypse.

"Why?" his voice cracked, and I felt that same sinking feeling in my stomach as when he got all broken up about my refusing to comment on his artwork. AKA the general root of complaint #3. I knew that damn turkey sandwich I had gotten from the diner earlier wasn't to be trusted. God only knew how long it had been sitting out to actually make me feel nauseous like this.

"My 'damn artwork'? So what, you don't like my stuff? And I fill your life with hetero torture methods? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why the fuck would you make a list about me, Brian?"he shrieked.

"Justin, it's not what it looks like," I said rather lamely, wondering when I had begun to deem it necessary to make excuses to him for my behavior. Whatever the hell happened to no excuses, no apologies, no regrets?

Of course, whether I chose to acknowledge it or not, I knew the answer to that question. Justin was what the hell happened.

He let out a dry bark of humorless laughter. "Give me a fucking break! It's exactly what it looks like. Well, I'm not going to...what was it?" Justin glanced down at the list. "Cry because I found out about your fucking list!"

Even I had the sense and decency not to point out that he was already doing just that. I doubted whether he even noticed that his cheeks were glistening, whether from tears of anger and betrayal, or pure hurt and dejection, I wasn't sure, and didn't think I even wanted to know.

"Well, since I'm such a pain in your ass, why don't I just spare you some trouble and get the fuck out of here, since you obviously don't want me around?"

Only the years of studious practice I'd had keeping my features free of all emotion kept the evidence of my imploding insides from showing.

"Justin, don't do this!" I called after him, half of me exasperated at his queen-out, and the other half sort of disappointed that he was now on his way toward the loft door. "Come on, don't be such a fucking drama queen!" I called after him. "You don't get it!"

"What don't I get, Brian?" he wheeled around suddenly, glaring at me through his tears. That I had caused. Again. Damn, that turkey sandwich was wreaking some havoc on my churning insides.

I took a deep breath. His hand was an inch away from the door. If I said the wrong thing, he would bolt.

"Look, I didn't mean it the way it sounds when you look at that list," I said, trying to convey to him without actually saying outright that I actually didn't mind the things on that list as much as I made it sound like.

"Then how did you mean it?" he asked. His voice was quiet now, desperate, but he was no longer yelling.

I looked away. I couldn't have him within my line of vision and speak the words I needed to say to make this better.

"I don't...mind," I said simply, hoping against hope that this would be enough, that he'd understand what I was trying to say.

He merely looked confused. I sighed again, resigning myself.

"I don't mind," I began again slowly, "what you do. The things on the list that you do."

"What are you talking about?" he sniffled pathetically, wiping his watery eyes on the back of his hand; I felt my emotional dam take a steady hit. He just looked so fucking pathetic.

"The hetero torture, the cu—the holding you at night thing, your artwork...I don't mind it." There. I did it. I hope he's fucking happy.

Sure enough, he blinked a couple of times, then a hint of his Sunshine smile began to peek through the tears like sunlight through clouds. "Really?" he asked hopefully.

"Really," I said crisply, eager to get this fucking lesbionic conversation over with.

"So you don't think I'm a twat?"

Well, I wasn't going to lie to the little shit.

"I know you're a twat, Sunshine." His smile fell. I rolled my eyes. "I just don't particularly mind that are," I admitted gruffly.

"Aw, Bri!"

Suddenly, I found my arms rather full of blond twink as Justin ran forward and through his arms around me. I was unable to keep the thought of how sickeningly lesbionic I had become lately out of my head, but I hugged him back nonetheless. How fucking romantic. Ridiculously romantic, one might say.

"Hey, you know what?" he asked, leaning back a bit to look me in the eye. I cocked an eyebrow at him. "I think it's only fair that I make a list, too," he said seriously.

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "'Reasons why Brian Kinney is an Asshole...' It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Funny, I've never heard you complain about anything to do with my asshole before."

"Who's complaining? I don't particularly mind it," he quoted. He was smirking now, like some fiendish cartoon villain about to conduct his evil master plan to secure world domination. "Reason number one—"

Fucking twat.